A Place Called Tarsus IV
by whatshouldntbe
Summary: Nothing will ever undo the horrors she bore witness to. And even when she's safely back on earth sometime later, she'll never talk about it. Never explain why she was able to survive when many others did not.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Place Called Tarsus IV  
**Fandom:** Reboot XI/AU  
**Universe/Series:** Part of the '_What Shouldn't Be_' series; Companion piece to '_Arena_'  
**Rating:** PG-13 (R over all)  
**Word count:** 2000+ for this part, 2000+ so far  
**Disclaimer:** I own Star Trek as much as I own the Sun, which means not at all.  
**Warnings:** always!girl Kirk, angst, action, drama, child abuse, implied cannibalism, implied underage, violence, possible amateur world-building  
**Summary:** Nothing will ever undo the horrors she bore witness to. And even when she's safely back on earth sometime later, she'll never talk about it. Never explain why she was able to survive when many others did not.

* * *

**Prologue**

Bones has this look on his face.

"What?" Jim sighs. "What is it this time? Just—out with it—I know it _has _to be something for you to pull me off bridge in the middle of my shift."

The look stays.

Jim frowns, growing a little worried. "Bones? Seriously—what's the matter?" she asks. She crosses her ankles and ignores the urge to swing her feet back and forth while she sits on the edge of the biobed. Usually by this time, he'd be twirling his tricorder all around her like some magical wand. Then glaring at her readings, and then at her if he found something wrong. For God sakes, she was in sickbay, _unarmed_ and _willing_ (well maybe not willing since Bones was the one who dragged her down here in the first place), but why wasn't he taking advantage of that?

Bones's face scrunches up with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. His lips tighten as he turns, marching to the far corner of the room where there is a stack of stools, and he grabs one, pulling it back over. He slams it down and takes a seat, hiding his face in the palms of his hands, and mutters for the next two minutes. His shoulders are shaking slightly.

Jim doesn't say anything, but she watches him as she folds her hands over her lap with a deeper frown. She can be patient.

Bones slumps even more into himself, keeping his face hidden, but he speaks, "I'm gonna ask you somethin', Kid." He pauses briefly then goes on to say, "I'm gonna ask you somethin' _real _uncomfortable. But I need you to be straight with me."

Jim crosses her arms. "Haven't I so far?" she asks with confusion.

Bones sighs and straightens. "No—not about this—you—" He seems to be fumbling with his words. "You never talked—never _mentioned_—I mean, _Christ_, Jim..."

Jim feels a small bit of agitation as she uses her fingers to comb her blonde bangs from her face. "Bones, will you just say what's bugging you?"

Bones looks at her sharply, his hazel eyes are rimmed with red, and it makes Jim gasp softly.

"Bones—have you been crying?" she asks, trying to remember if his eyes had been that way since he marched onto the bridge and (quite insistently) dragged her out.

Bones grunts at the question and turns his head, looking at some unknown point on the other end of the room. He crosses his arms defensively. "I heard some things. Rumors. Things I didn't ever want to hear again since I first learned of it. But it got me to thinkin'." His left leg starts to bounce, and he seems anxious. "A few years back, when I got into this medical game, there was a discussion about childhood trauma, and the extent of it." He glances at Jim briefly before looking away. "Did you know that the federation allows people to alter their medical records and take things out they don't want known? Depending on where off-planet it might'a happened and how severe that childhood trauma was. They can twist and turn it anyway they like. It's sickening really, givin' people that kind of power, not that I don't understand it from their view, but it's important I think, in case some kind of condition or illness hits them. Maybe what they altered could have saved their lives when they needed it most."

Jim cocks her head but remains silent.

"The first time I looked at your medical records, it was—confusing," Bones says carefully. "It made me think of that discussion, and so I didn't pry, didn't want to. I figured you'd tell me when it mattered. Guess I was wrong to leave it alone, cause I got this inclination it matters now. And before you get defensive about what I have to say, you need to know that as your physician, I have every right to get to the bottom of any vague details in your medical record."

"I'm not the one acting defensive right now," Jim points out calmly, lacing her fingers together over her lap.

Bones scowls and meets her eye. "Oh I'm willin' to bet my whole stash of good bourbon that you'll be kickin' and screamin' by the time I get a real answer outta you," he says confidently.

Jim throws up her hands with a shrug. She doesn't know where the hell this is going. Talk about beating around the bush; Jim feels like Bones is beating around the whole damn amazon.

"Please," Jim sighs, as patiently as she can at this point. "Please, just enlighten me, Bones. What exactly is your case?"

Bones drops his gaze and fiddles with his tricorder, which is weird for him because Leonard H. McCoy doesn't _fiddle_. "Jim," he slowly starts. "Why didn't you tell me about Tarsus?"

Jim pales and looks ready to bolt.

Bones is on his feet in a second. "Don't you even think on it! I'll sedate you if I have to. You're not leavin' this room," he barks. "You will _tell _me _why._"

Jim clamps her mouth shut defiantly and crosses her arms.

Bones continues to stand with his arms crossed and glares at her. "Do you know what it's like to put all those little missin' pieces of your medical history together, and come to _that _conclusion? And because of a rumor no less, a _goddamn rumor_."

Jim lowers her gaze to his feet, shoulders tense and taunt with anger and fear. "Well I'm sure it must have been _real _hard on _you_ Bones to figure out how _fucked _my life really is," Jim mutters in response.

"Don't pander to me, Kid," Bones snaps. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jim wraps her arms around herself and keeps her head bowed. "What was I supposed to say?"

"How about, '_Well, you may need to know that I was there, just in case I'm bleedin' all over the place and you can't seem to figure out why because I took some information out that could have been of use to fixin' me'_."

Jim scowls at his shoes. "Yeah, Bones, cause that totally sounds like me," she replies sarcastically. "Let's just be real for a second. Who the fuck in their right mind would admit to—being apart of _that_?"

"Someone who's sensible enough to know that it might come back and bite them in the ass, especially when a fucking rumor circulates on their ship about the man responsible for that fucking horror story, and how he may still be _alive," _Bones grouches. "And don't tell me you're not affected. You haven't been sleepin' or eatin' right since it started. I've _noticed_."

Jim frowns. "God, you watch me like a hawk, and irritate the fuck out of me," she mutters.

Bones huffs. "Likewise."

Jim sags a little further with a sigh and rubs the back of her neck. "I didn't know how you'd react, Bones. No one likes hearing about that story, it's—I don't know. I don't know—I swore to myself a long time ago that I'd never talk about that part of my life. So don't take it personally." She lifts her head and finally meets his gaze. "What happened there—I just—I couldn't let you share that nightmare with me."

Bones glares. "That's not for you to decide."

"It kinda is, Bones," Jim argues. "You've already been crying about it—something I didn't want to happen—but now you know. No point in learning the gory details."

"I want to help, Jim. You can't deal with this alone, you've done it for far too long as is," Bones says.

Jim gives a one-shouldered shrug and studies her nails. "I actually don't think about it."

"Bullshit."

She shrugs again.

"Talk to me," Bones insists.

Another shrug.

Bones sighs and sits back on the stool. "If you wont talk to me as your doctor, or your friend, at least do it for that damn hobgoblin."

Jim looks at him sharply.

"It's affecting him, Jim," Bones explains. "He comes here every so often, confused as to why he's dreaming about—those things—and I have to admit I'm worried too. Vulcans don't dream, Jim. So I'm thinkin' it's not his own dreams that he's havin'—its yours. And you lied to me. You told me you talked to him about the bond, when _clearly_, you haven't."

Jim trembles a little.

"You're having nightmares—about what happened—and it's carryin' over into the bond," Bones says.

Jim closes her eyes in regret. "_Fuck..._"

"Yeah, Kid, fuck is right. Now talk to me," Bones says and waits patiently.

Jim fidgets and studies the tiny loose thread in her gold uniform dress.

"I've got all day to wait, and I will," Bones warns.

Jim feels her mouth sag unhappily and she takes a chance at glancing around. "I don't think—"

Bones interjects, "Already took care of it. Just me and you, Kid. I made sure of that."

Jim glares. "You can't do that. What if there's an emergency?"

Bones lifts an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I can. Last I heard, I was CMO. And as CMO I'm seein' to somethin' that I find more important than any medical emergency—and it just so happens to be the health of this ship's Captain. And if need be, I told my staff they'd just do house calls if assistance was required," he explains, not looking the least bit sorry for it.

Jim is quieted by his confession.

Bones leans forward and reaches out to grab her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I'm right here, Jim. I'm right here and I'll be damned if I go anywhere else—not when my best friend needs me."

Jim looks away, unable to take how deep those words cut into her jaded heart and she allows herself one small wry smile. "I hate you," she whispers, no bite in her words at all. "I—so much, Bones."

"Pull the other, Kid, cause I'm not buyin'," Bones rumbles, squeezing her hand gently once more.

Jim closes her eyes. She can hear it in his voice. He's determined to know. "I don't know where to start," she mutters.

"Anywhere'll do."

Jim chuckles bitterly and shakes her head. She exhales slowly and quietly as her eyes open and meets his. "I hope you have a bucket near."

Bones frowns. His hazel eyes are riddled with disapproval. "Jim—"

"No I mean it, Bones," Jim says, shaking her head sternly. "What I have to say—even you couldn't stomach it."

"Try me."

Jim eyes him, but Bones's face is set. It's the same kind of face he wore a few months back when Cupcake led the security team down to Delta Vega in search of Jim's body. Bones hadn't been convinced when her life signs went completely cold. And he certainly couldn't be convinced otherwise when his staff said there was still no hope for the Captain. The damage she suffered had been severe, and even bruised and bloodied, mentally and physically, Bones had been determined to save her. So Jim knew that moment he wouldn't let her go until she gave him the honest-to-God truth of things.

Jim gives his hand a gentle squeeze back and exhales, ignoring the torrent twitching of her heart, which protested this confession heavily. "I was thirteen, Bones," she starts quietly. "Thirteen and unprepared." She stops for a moment and gazes towards his office. She smiles sadly. "My dad had this cherry red corvette, and—well, it was the only thing left that I had of him. But even Winona's bastard brother seemed determined to take that from me. So I did what I do best." She shifts her gaze and meet's Bones's curious hazel eyes. "I fucked him over." She smirks bitterly. "I fucked him over so bad that he didn't think twice about taking me to Tarsus and leaving me there." She pauses again and shakes her head. "It happens like this—"

And she begins, putting an abrupt end to the vow she'd made years ago. A vow to never speak of what had really happened on Tarsus IV.

* * *

******Author Notes: **_This will be an in-depth look at James's time on Tarsus IV based on how I think things went. The story has really been calling me and it just seems bigger than the sit down explanation I envisioned her having with Bones and Spock. I felt like I had to write the story behind Arena in order to understand the direction I was going with that part of the series._**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

Uncle Frank isn't very smart. But Jim is. She's smarter than half of the people in Riverside. Or even in all of Iowa. Of course she's never been any further than the borders of Riverside, and so she can only assume she is. And she thinks about it all the time. Leaving that is; just to find out for sure who else is out there. She wants to know what the world has to offer her when this hell-whole of a farm Uncle Frank calls home only offers her misery. Jim admits to being wild like a caged animal. Hell, she's a Kirk. It comes with the territory. It's probably why she can't identify with all the other kids her age. She likes to act out when Uncle Frank pushes her too far. Just one word about her parents is all it takes these days, and he knows that.

James Tiberius Kirk is already a thirteen-year-old delinquent because of that man.

Can't be helped, really. Puberty is taking over, pumping unbridled adrenaline and hormones through her veins. She's bleeding from places she'd rather not bleed from and has no one to talk about it to. The anger from absent parents curls deep within her and drives her to lash out at the world, trying to serve back the unfair hand in life she's been dealt. It's so goddamn unfair sometimes. As she gets older, she gets angrier, more questioning. Why did her dad have to be a hero? Why did her mom leave her behind? Why the hell was she named after men she barely knew?

Sometimes Jim would like to believe that maybe her parents didn't know she'd be a girl. Or perhaps they had some sort of foresight for her personality. Maybe they saw her in her dark blue overalls, rolling around on the ground, throwing untamed punches at Johnny, the boy who _can not _keep his goddamn hands to himself, in the middle of recess for all to see; trying to prove herself (to them) that's she not just some pretty pig-tailed girl who tolerates being doted on.

Maybe they knew she was the kind of girl who likes to pick up old parts from the junkyard so that she can start putting together some mode of transportation for herself. When she was seven she had made her own scooter. When she was ten it evolved into a bicycle. And now she was working on building her own motorized bike. The building for it is a little early. She wont be able to ride it tills she's sixteen, but she'd rather start now and have something to look forward to. No more Uncle Frank lugging her around when he damn well pleased.

The more Jim thought on these things, the more she at ease with the name she felt. And then she was glad she bore the name. It was a good strong name to have, despite the lack of what it said she should have between her legs. It didn't matter. Because she'd rather not be a Pam or some Suzy Q. People will take one look at her and take in the pretty blue eyes, the long corn-colored hair, those pouty pink lips and the golden tan of her skin, and they would just coo and fawn all over her. Then when she told them her name (James Tiberius Kirk) and they saw that determined and hard look in her eye, recognized that last name, they fumbled and thought twice, trying to figure her out and coming to no conclusion. And then she'll open those pouty pink lips, reveal just a little of her genius, and _crush_ them, right along with their idiotic preconceived notions.

Why was it so hard to believe that the beautiful blonde girl with sky blue eyes was actually intelligent, and that her life goals did not include being some kind of shallow model? Good looks, though helpful at times, didn't earn her a whole lot of respect.

But that's the way of things. Humans can't seem to understand her. Maybe that's why she finds herself in her own company instead of the company of others. Jim will spend hours sitting on top of the roof of the house while Uncle Frank drinks himself into a stupor. As he thumps around in the living room, cursing and knocking over furniture, probably looking for her, his personal punching bag.

She'll lie back on that roof and ignore all the angered grunts and shouts and nasty little tricks he tries to use to goad her into coming out so he can have some fun. She'll let down her hair up here, literally as well as metaphorically, because it's the only place where she feels comfortable. She knows it's strange to wear your hair in a ponytail all the time, at least, that's what all the other girls say. They don't understand, and often say that if they had 'such nice long hair', they'd do all sorts of things with it. Jim doesn't. She can't explain why she refuses to let her hair down in the presence of others, or why she keeps it in the same ponytail everyday. Probably one of those defense mechanisms she's read about. She does like to read, to learn.

She refuses to skip a grade; doesn't need people to talk about her more than they already do. She's mostly self-taught anyway. Sometimes she spends hours at the library after school, just so she won't have to go home right away, and just read.

She'll read and read so that when she's forced to come home, she'll have hours of subject matter to think about, to distract her when she eats whatever slop of food Uncle Frank is kind enough to make for her. Then quickly she'll make her way up to the roof. She'll lay back and watch the stars, feeling a twinge in her heart that tells her that up there is where she really belongs, not down here. Gravity's been unkind to her, arresting her to the soil of Earth, when all she wants to do is float away. Maybe somewhere up there, her mother can be found. It's wishful thinking; she knows the truth of it all. Uncle Franck never lets her forget that she's not wanted. By anyone on this planet.

So she can't be blamed for thinking her happiness lies with the stars.

_Crash._

"…you hiding at you little shit? Come out here!"

_Thump. Thump. Crash._

Jim sighs and rolls over onto her side as her uncle breaks through the haze of her thoughts. The wind picks up a little and plays with the long waves of her blonde hair, sometimes pushing it over her cheek and towards the corner of eyes like a golden curtain. She kind of hopes Uncle Frank will trip and crack his head open on a piece of furniture. She doesn't wish for him to die, no, unfortunately he_ is_ all she's got left. She just needs him incapacitated for a few days.

_CRASH._

"…little bitch. I'll sell that piece of junk car, you just wait. Daddy's not here to stop me now is? Sell it, make a nice penny. Hm? What do you say Jimbo? How much do you think I can get for a legend's pretty little corvette?"

_CRASH._

Jim sits up immediately, no longer able to ignore her raving uncle. He wouldn't dare. He wouldn't _dare._

_CRASH._

And then Jim remembers all those times, all those strange faces that came and went. All of them huddled around her father's car with uncle Frank, gazes assessing, sizing the worth of it. Jim hadn't thought much of it at the time. Thought her stupid uncle was just showing off. He does it all the time. With her, with the car, with anything that can make him seem less of a worthless pile of garbage.

_THUMPTHUMP**CRASH**._

"Got a good little deal for it, did I mention? Got a guy who's coming in the morning Jimmy. Gonna come and get it. Maybe I oughta buy you a nice little doll? Give you a percentage of what I get. Was your dad's car after all, you should get something shouldn't ya Jimmy?" It's obvious he's stumbling around in her room now, trashing it with the hand that isn't holding the bottle of liquor. It's fine. She's learned never to keep anything important in her room, in the house.

_CRASH. THUMP. THUMP._

Ice cold fire and rage, so much _rage _flutters through her veins. He's gone too far this time. Too far.

When Uncle Frank finally passes out in the bathroom, Jim spends the rest of the night cleaning the house and plotting.

So really, she can't be blamed when she rises with the sun the next morning, swipes the keys off of uncle Frank's nightstand and hops in her dad's cherry red corvette. Before she knows it, she's whipping down the road. Minutes later Uncle Frank seems to shake himself into consciousness and realized what's happened. He calls, cursing her and yelling all sorts of unspeakable things, threatening to call her mother and whip her ass so hard she'll see the same stars her dead father did. Jim cuts the line off mid-rant and pops the top, shoving a pair of black sunglasses on her face.

Up ahead there is a boy holding out his thumb in the universal sign for hitchhiking. Jim grins, honking eagerly, waving and laughing out an almost maniacal 'Hey Johnny-boy!' as she swerves past him. She sees his dumbfounded expression in the rearview mirror before its blocked by a state trooper on his bike. Uncle Frank must have called the authorities. And seriously, she's not just gonna pull over when asked to, she's on a roll. She just whips a hard right and continues towards the canyon.

There is a moment where she embodies adrenaline, thinks about staying in the car, going down with it, joining her father in the great beyond. But she's already spun the car to the side, popped open the door and is clawing violently at the edge to keep from going over. Her hair's a mess and there's dirt on her cheeks, jeans and t-shirt. She pulls herself up, grinning ferociously, heavily satisfied and tugs off the glasses, tossing them over her shoulder as the trooper steps down from his bike, asking for her name.

And just like everybody else, she lets him know exactly whom he's dealing with.

The state trooper just hauls Jim by the scruff of her neck and throws her on his bike, circling around and bringing her home. He dumps her on the porch, where her seething uncle is waiting.

Uncle Frank pulls her in close, digging his fingers into her left shoulder as he says, "Thank you for going out of you way to deal with her." Then he digs his fingers a little deeper and Jim winces but keeps her mouth shut.

The state trooper doesn't remove his helmet but he removes his gloves. "She get's a warning this time," he says.

"Well that'll be more than she deserves," Uncle Frank snorts bitterly. "I'd say a night behind bars would do her some good."

"She's too young for me to haul her in, so I'll let whatever punishment she deserves be between you and God," and then he turns, leaving it at that, climbing his bike and riding off into the sunset like some modern day RoboCop.

"How was the joy ride, Jimbo?" Uncle Frank asks evenly.

"I don't know," Jim mutters. "Did the guy come by yet?"

"No, but what should I say when he does?"

"Tell him if he still wants it, he can pick up the pieces from the bottom of a ravine."

Uncle Frank doesn't wait but five minutes before he digs his fingers into the crown of her blonde hair and throws her in the house. Jim goes sailing across the floor, rolling against the floorboards until she smacks into the base of the stairs. She'll have even more bruises to add to the current collection.

"You fucking piece of shit," Uncle Frank spits. He takes a menacing step into the house, screen door slapping shut behind him.

Jim scrambles to her feet and backs up into the wall. "Don't touch me," she warns.

Uncle Frank sneers. "Don't touch you? Don't_ **touch **_you?" he snarls. "You just cost me fifty grand in credits with that fucking stunt you just pulled. Now what do I tell the man when he comes looking for that piece of shit auto?"

Jim holds her ground and glares defiantly. If it was such a piece of shit, then why was he selling high for it? "I don't care! It was my dad's car and you had no right to sell it!"

"Why you little—" Uncle Frank steps up to her, hand poised and ready to strike.

Jim flinches back expectantly but he never follows through.

Uncle Frank continues to stand like that—like he'll be ready at any second to launch himself at her and rip her to shreds. Then, he just drops his arm back to his side as he looks at his watch. "Fifty grand," he mutters with a disgusted headshake. "Gonna make you pay that back."

"How? I'm not old enough to work." Jim mutters.

"Didn't ask you to get a job now did I?" Uncle Frank scowls and hobbles over to the couch in the living room, snatching up the bottle of whiskey from the coffee table. He takes a long swig as he falls back onto the couch with a grunt. "Go on up to your room. I'm just sick of looking at you."

Jim fists her hands at her sides and glares at the back of his head. She hates him so much. She glances down at the empty vodka bottle lying on the floor, and for a moment she's tempted to hit him over the head with it. She doesn't. She stomps angrily up to her room instead, and slams the door as hard as she can.

In a fit of anger she begins to kick at her bed, over and over until her mattress topples over. With labored breaths, she falls back against the door behind her and slides down until her bottom touches the ground. She pulls her legs up, wrapping her arms around them and drops her forehead to the top of her knees. She doesn't care what her uncle does to her; she swears it was worth it.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Jim listens as Uncle Frank grunts to his feet to answer the door. "_Bill. Come in, please._"

The screen door slaps shut.

Jim opens her door and quietly creeps to the top of the stairs. She can't see Uncle Frank or this Bill person. They must have already situated themselves in the living room, so she just sits and listens. She can't wait to hear Uncle Frank's excuse.

"_I've got a bit of bad news,_" Uncle Frank says after a minute of silence. "_Whiskey?_"

Bill chuckles. It sounds deep and throaty. "_That bad huh? Just give me two fingers of it—thanks._"

"_I know you came out all this way to get the corvette, and I swear to you I had it all cleaned up and ready for you—but then there was a complication._"

Jim snorts quietly. That's all she ever was to Uncle Frank. A complication.

"_You're gonna have to level with me here. I'm not one for beating around the bush Frank and I'd rather you explain to me what the complication is so that I can get back to all those appointments I so kindly moved around, just to be here._"

"_Right. I understand that. It's just—"_ Uncle Frank hesitates and that makes Jim smile. "_I got this kid, she's been dumped on me. No one wants her but I was kind enough to look after her. And she's a bit of a mess._"

Jim's smile instantly shrivels into a scowl.

"_A kid huh?_" Bill hums thoughtfully. "_Just how old is she?_"

"_Thirteen and pure hell._"

Bill lets out this ridiculous vivacious laugh and it sounds like he's slapping his knee. "_My you are a saint to take on such a task without the hands of a woman. What'd she do then?_"

"_Not sure, but when the State Trooper dropped her off, she might have implied that she drove it off into that canyon that's about three miles west of here._"

Bill laughs again. "_Doesn't that just beat all?_"

"_I'm more liable to beat her,_" Uncle Frank grunts.

Bill makes a thoughtful sound. "_It was a pretty little thing too,_" he sighs, almost wistfully. "_Oh the plans I had for it._"

Jim frowns.

"_I can imagine. You have to know how sorry I am that my niece caused you all this trouble,_" Uncle Frank says, feigning sympathy.

Bill grunts and it sounds like he's standing to his feet. "_I feel more sorry for you than anything._" There is a brief pause before he continues, "_Tell you what—I might not be able to pay you for what I originally said, but you seem like an earnest man and raising such a child on your own has to be a hassle so I'll give you eight thousand credits just for your trouble._"

"_I sure do appreciate that Mr. Nickum,_" Uncle Frank gushes.

Jim rolls her eyes in disgust. He could be polite if there was money involved.

"_No problem, I figure you're going to need it to cover the expenses for the trip._"

"_Trip?_"

"_Why sure. Seems like this trouble with your niece is a continuing occurrence so I'm going to give you a little advice,_" Bill says. "_There's a place out quite a ways from Earth. It's a planet called Tarsus IV and it's owned by a good acquaintance of mine, Governor Kodos. He's a traveling entrepreneur so I doubt he'll be there when you arrive—that man is a force to be reckoned with after all. He's got connections you wouldn't believe—but this is beside the point. Point is—he's got this planet and he sponsors and founds a special correctional camp. Now it's an all-boys camp but that's why I gave you the extra credits. You're gonna meet with a Mr. Breaker and your gonna **persuade **him you see. And I swear to you, you'll have no more problems from her. Trust me on this, I've heard from a few other colleagues that said it straightened their boys right out."_

"_Tarsus IV, huh? I just might have to look into it._"

"_Oh no, Frank. You'll want to leave tonight. The planet becomes virtually inaccessible during certain periods of the year because of it's retrograde orbiting—it's the damnedest thing, really. If you don't go now—seeing how it's the middle of the summer—you'll have to wait till late spring of next year to take her._"

"_Well then I guess it's decided then. Thanks for the idea._"

"_No problem. You have yourself a good one, and send my regards to Mr. Breaker._"

Uncle Frank chuckles. "_Will do._"

Jim stands and returns to her room. The bastard. If he wanted to get rid of her, then fine. How much more worse could Tarsus be then this hellhole? She'd gladly take the chance of getting away from him.

Jim doesn't even act surprised when he bursts in her room and hauls her out without asking her to pack.

888

The shuttle they took was small and cramped and as cheap as Uncle Frank was. It was the only shuttle that had one of its layovers in Tarsus IV. All the other passengers had a different destination, so they were the only two who didn't return to the shuttle when it stopped in the planet's small shipyard, two weeks after they left Earth.

Uncle Frank was in a glorious mood when he rented a car and followed one of the shipyard attendant's directions to the colony.

Jim just sat in the back of that old jeep and didn't utter a word as she leaned against the window and observed her surroundings while Uncle Frank drove like a maniac.

There is virtually nothing on this planet but flat lands of sand. On either side of the road there's not a plant or tree or bush or animal in sight. There's just the cloudless blue sky and the three suns sitting east and west and south along the planet. And it is hot—so ridiculously hot. Even with all the windows down, they still drown in their own sweat.

"Two days," Uncle Frank mutters. "What a drive. Guess they try and make sure you little scallywags don't try for an escape." His brown eyes flick up into the rear view mirror and meet hers. "I suggest you don't, Jimbo—if you know what's good for you." His eyes lower to the miles and miles of road ahead of them. "I doubt you would survive that little getaway."

Jim says nothing to that. She's already resigned to her fate.

Once and a while they'll stop so Uncle Frank can have a quick rest or so one of them can pee. It does take exactly two days before they reach a ten-foot tall iron gate with the letter 'K' in cursive. These gates are attached to thick concrete walls resting on either side and stretching out so far that Jim can't even see where it ends.

Uncle Frank hunks the horn at the gate once, twice, and then a third time out of frustration. Just as he goes for a fourth, the gate opens with a loud groan. "Finally," he huffs and shifts gears. The drive down the private road winds into a cul-de-sac around a huge fountain with the statue of a man in the middle of it. Uncle Frank parks the car right along the marble steps attached to the gargantuan brick mansion.

Jim climbs out and eyes the overbearingly large manor. The place looks as if it could have been some kind of museum in it's past life.

Uncle Frank spits off into the bushes as they climb the steps and approach the white double doors with a silver knocker. Uncle Frank doesn't even bother with knocker and he just slams his fist into the door a couple of times.

The door slowly pulls open on its own.

Uncle Frank sniffs and steps through, leaving Jim to follow behind him. They walk through this huge lobby, across a green marble floor where a crystal chandelier hangs overhead. Directly ahead of them is an olive-skinned man with bright blue hair that sticks up wildly in every direction. He's sitting behind a mahogany desk, under a large mock painting of Napoleon. He's wearing a silk button down shirt with some navy blue slacks and sky blue alligator shoes. His eyebrows are neatly arched and he has glitter on his eyelids. He has dark kohl eyeliner around his steel blue eyes and a cherry color on his lips. His looks straddle between feminine and masculine. He's humming softly and filing his crystal colored nails.

Uncle Frank makes a face at the sight of him as he clears his throat.

Jim's not the least surprised that Uncle Frank is a possible homophobe.

The blue haired man stops and glances up disinterestedly. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to see a Mr. Breaker," Uncle Frank replies, eyeing him distastefully.

The blue haired man grins slowly. "Are you now?" he purrs, seeming to take great satisfaction in the way Uncle Frank winces. "And what do you need to see him about?"

Uncle Frank makes a sloppy hand gesture towards Jim.

The blue haired man lowers his gaze and he studies Jim intently. Something in his face changes. "Wait here. I'll retrieve him shall I?" Then he disappears down the hall to their left.

"You keep your mouth shut," Uncle Frank warns.

"I haven't said anything," Jim mutters, stepping away from him and crossing her arms.

Uncle Frank looks ready to curse her out but the blue haired man has returned with a forty-something, plump and balding man. He's wearing a teal colored suit with a matching tie. He looks like one of those greedy corporate fat cats in those political cartoons Jim could be prone to reading from time to time when Uncle Frank didn't bother with the daily newspaper.

"Mr. Emerson—I was told you're arrival would not be until tomorrow by Mr. Nickums," the fat cat holds out his meaty palm as he wipes the top of his balding head with his handkerchief. He has a British accent.

Jim quietly snorts. The fat cat is breathing hard like he'd been running. By the looks of him, that is impossible.

"Mr. Breaker, when Bill recommended this place to me, there wasn't any time I could waste," Uncle Frank replies, taking the hand and shaking it firmly twice.

"Is that so?" The fat cat's beady little eyes swerve to Jim and assess her for a brief moment. "You must realize Mr. Emerson, this is an all-boys camp and as a liaison of Governor Kodos, I take care of the affairs of this colony when he is away and he is away quite often. Meaning that there's a hefty price to be paid for a novelty such as gender to be overlooked."

"I understand. Bill's made that much clear—I don't have much to offer, I'm a poor man Mr. Breaker but she's cost me more than I'll ever hope to gain," Uncle Frank says, gesturing his head towards Jim.

The fat cat's lips twist into an ugly grin. "Any friend of a friend of Governor Kodos is an acquaintance of mine. I'm sure we can work something out. As quartermaster to the camp, I am aware of every bunk and free bed and so I may be able to find some place to put the girl." The fat cat turns to the blue haired man. "Striker, why don't you ring Einhardt and have him bring the Dune Buggy around. And do try to keep the girl entertained while Mr. Emerson and I have a private chat."

"Will do, sir," the blue haired man says sarcastically.

The fat cat leads Uncle Frank away and they disappear down that same hall of which the fat cat had emerged.

Striker eyes Jim and makes a vague gesture at the candy bowl on the corner of his desk. "Take a few pieces and stash them good. Might be the last time," he suggest, flipping open his communicator. "Striker to Einhardt. Breaker wants the Bug around front in the next ten minutes. We've got a new arrival." Striker snaps his communicator shut and drops it on his desk carelessly. He's more careful when he picks up his nail file and begins to work on his crystal nails again. "So," he starts without looking up.

Jim waits for him to finish as she picks through the bowl full of assorted candy. She carefully avoids the ones she knows she's allergic to and sticks to just the toffee and chocolate, shoving a few in her jean pockets.

"What did a little thing like you do to end up in a place like this?" Striker asks.

Jim shrugs and pops a piece of toffee in her mouth.

"Shame," Striker murmurs. "We don't get girls. Girls aren't welcomed—at least by Governor Kodos standards. Are you a crybaby?"

Jim frowns and shakes her head.

"Well that's good in any case—it'll help you last longer here. I'd suggest not telling the others you're a girl. They'd eat you alive—bunch of savages really. Though it can't be helped. That's what happens when you don't feed them properly and have them work sun up and sun down in the fields. It's crazy—I've said this as considerably as I can to the Governor but he doesn't care all that much. He says it's a discipline camp and that's exactly what they'll get—discipline." Striker sighs and holds his hand up, looking at his crystal nails. "He's a hard man the Governor, and well—nothing ever grows in those fields. Nothing but sand and rocks and it's enough to drive a man out of his wits—all that useless laboring." Striker tsks and lowers his hand, giving Jim his full attention. "You really are pretty. It's a shame what Breaker will do to your hair." He begins filing the other hand before he pauses thoughtfully. "Just how long can you go without eating?"

Jim slows her chewing as an unsettling feeling starts to unfurl in her gut.

Breaker and Uncle Frank return in that moment, looking chummy like long lost friends.

"Everything's in order. Striker, arrange for Mr. Emerson's car to be filled so that he'll have enough for the journey back," Breaker instructs and Striker sighs long-sufferingly but nods nonetheless. "Well then—Mr. Emerson. It was a pleasure doing business with you. When shall we expect your return?"

Uncle Frank's mouth curls, neither a smile nor a frown. "Now that's something I have to consider," he says as he briefly looks at Jim. "It wont be anytime soon, I can tell you that much."

Jim gives him the middle finger and turns her back to him.

"Oh my, my, my—" Breaker laughs. "And she's thirteen you say? She is a feisty one. Yes, I do believe she'll fit in right along with the rest of them."

Uncle Frank looks less than amused.

"I'll take it from here then, shall I?" Breaker approaches Jim and clasps his meaty hand over her shoulder. "We'll have to make a few changes. Come child, we haven't got all day."

Jim lets the fat cat lead her down a different hall and then into a small bathroom.

"Sit," Breaker instructs, pointing to the toilet.

Jim stands defiantly.

Breaker sighs like he's bored. "Listen dear one, I am very tired and do not have the patience nor the time to deal with your rebellious attitude. Now let us be done with this." He takes a moment to lift his suit jacket to expose the phaser he has in the holster under his shoulder. "Or I can drag your wretched body back to your worthless uncle and that'll be the end of that. You decide, Precious."

Jim purses her lips as she eyes the phaser for a moment before reluctantly plopping down on the toilet seat top.

"Good girl," Breaker coos with a nasty smile. He opens the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a black bag, setting it on the sink counter. He unzips it and shuffles around before he pulls out a pair of scissors. Without even a thought, he grabs the end of her ponytail and cuts the whole thing off.

Jim goes rigid, too stunned to even comprehend what's happening. The bastard just cut her hair off!

Breaker glances down at her face before he chuckles. "Oh don't look so shocked, Precious. We can't have you floundering about with all that hair. This is an all-boys camp and you my dear, are not a boy but there are ways I can rectify that," he says, turning on his clippers and running it across her scalp.

Jim sits there helplessly as her golden hair falls along her shoulders and lap and feet and the floor. Her fingers begin to curl into fists in her lap.

"It would be in your best interest not to mention that you are a girl. The boys—well, the boys aren't gentle creatures by nature and they'll not take pity on you either way. Best to serve your sentence with them as if you were one of them," Breaker advises. "You would not be the first girl, and she made the mistake of notifying the camp of her gender. She went missing that night. Not to worry though, we found her eventually—well, pieces of her."

Jim feels sick, and that small feeling of worry that something was terrifyingly wrong grows exponentially.

"And you should know that we do not tolerate insubordination. We are not above violence as a means to subdue nor are we above murder. Something to keep in mind, Precious." Breaker cut of the clippers with a satisfied hum. "That should do it." He digs his communicator from his pocket and flips it open. "Breaker to Striker. Bring me a set of the uniform."

"_On it, sir_."

Breaker snaps his communicator shut. He eyes her thoughtfully and keeps his gaze on her flat chest.

Jim scowls and crosses her arms over her chest, uncomfortable by his staring.

Striker appears in the doorway the next moment with a stack of clothes and a pair of dark brown hiking boots.

"Change quickly, then I'll give you the grand tour," Breaker says as Striker hands Jim the clothes.

They exit together and leave her alone with a soft click of the door behind them.

Jim reluctantly begins to peel out of her blue jeans and heart covered hoodie. She slips on the moss-colored, pocket-less khaki shorts first, then the black V-neck t-shirt and finally the dark brown hiking boots. Looking at the standing mirror by the bathtub, she finds that she can barely recognize herself. She lifts a hand to her new buzz cut hairdo and runs it through the blonde stubble. If she didn't look like a boy before, she does now.

_Knock, knock. _"Time is of the essence, Precious. I sure hope you're done," Breaker says through the wood of the door.

Jim scowls and chucks her one of her ratty sneakers at the door.

The door opens and Breaker is sporting a nasty grin. "I'll take that as a yes. Come, come—we haven't all day." He turns and heads down the hall, but not before saying, "Striker, make sure to select a group of the boys for cleaning duty. The house is getting practically filthy."

"Right away, sir," Striker drawls. As Jim slips by him, he stops her by putting a hand on her chest. "Don't forget the candy. And here's a few more to bargain and make friends with." He winks. "Us girls gotta stick together." Then he's gliding down the hall and out of sight.

Jim palms the handful of assorted candy before quickly slipping it in the sides of her shoes, and then grabbing the ones she's stored in her blue jeans. When she's finished, she quickly scuttles to the entrance, but not before she passes a room that has the door cracked slightly. Inside, she catches a glimpse of an older boy, who's sitting alone with a sad look on his face.

(**photo can be viewed on LJ**)

Before she can help it, she's stepping closer but the floorboard creaks under her. And then he's staring right at her.

(**photo can be viewed on LJ**)

Jim scrambles away just as he gets to his feet and high tails it to the front entrance and out through the double doors. As she jogs down the steps, she bumps right into a tall figure. She curses as she falls back on her butt and whips a glare up at the person that makes her fall. She pales when she sees that it's a figure in all black uniform pants, black hiking boots, black protector vest with a black turtleneck underneath and some black leather gloves, all this complete with a black biker helmet.

The black figure cocks his head, taking a step forward and wrapping his hand around the black hilt of his sword strapped to his side.

Jim flinches back and closes her eyes, waiting for the inevitable and fatal blow.

"Stand down, Einhardt," Breaker says, almost listlessly from his position in the front passenger seat of the dark green Dune Buggy. "This is a new guest."

Einhardt wordlessly drops his hand and spins on his heel. He walks around to the driver's seat of the Dune Buggy and climbs in. Then he places leather gloved hands on the steering wheel and just sits there like some kind of robot.

Jim finds the casualness in all of their actions, slightly disturbing.

"Oh do get up, child. We've wasted enough time as it is," Breaker slips on a pair of aviator sunglasses.

Jim purses her lips and climbs into the back of the Dune Buggy, buckles in and crosses her arms.

The fat cat gives Einhardt the signal and they're off. The Dune Buggy whips forward and then around the mansion to the back where there is another private road waiting. This private road leads to another iron gate and then the road abruptly ends once they're through the gate, leaving them to drive over gravel and rock and sand. Jim squints against the sunlight while at the same time trying to steady herself as the Buggy goes up and down, gyrating like some kind of mediocre rollercoaster.

Two hours. The ride takes _two hours_ before they reach the camps.

Einhardt parks just on the edge of the camp.

Jim notices, as she climbs out, that it's exactly how it sounds. There is nothing but tents, left to right, clustered together in three different quadrants, with a long one-level building, dead center.

Breaker steps out and flattens his meaty hand down his tie. "There now. Here we are," he says pleasantly. "Stay here, Einhardt—this should only take a moment." He gestures for Jim to follow him. "Keep up."

Jim grudgingly follows him as they walk into the camp and attract the curious gazes and whispers of the boys.

"The camps are separated into three sections, all by age. Least to greatest. This one here is called Seed, and it's for ages seven to eleven," Breaker makes a vague gestures to all the young boys they watch them both curiously and warily.

They are dirty and smudged with dirt, sporting the same uniform Jim has on; only they've chosen to do without the boots and the shirt. And with a good reason, it's hotter than Jim can stand.

They pass through this camp to the one-level building.

"This is the Mess Hall. This is where you will sit for your meals, if you behave and if we should feel inclined to feed any of you," Breaker explains.

Jim takes a look into the dingy windows as they pass it by and is able to see the long tables and benches on either side of the tables, but the Mess is otherwise empty.

They step into the second camp.

"This one here is Stalk. This camp is for twelve to fifteen. This is where you will be staying until—well until you reach the age of sixteen," Breaker says, mouth twitching in amusement as though there was something funny. Then he points to the third camp across the way. "And that's Harvest, it's for all the older ones. I advise you not to venture onto their territory. They can be quite—hostile." Breaker then leads her behind the camps where there are scattered workers plowing into the unyielding land with different ground tools. "And this is the field. This is where you will be spending most of your time until told otherwise. The younger ones work the field, and only a few of the older ones, but most of the older ones are Watchers. They make sure that there is order and that things are running the way they are supposed to. They report some discrepancies to me, but most of the time they dish out the kind of punishments they see fit. I recommend you avoid being on the receiving end of them."

Jim says nothing.

Breaker whistles and gestures to one of the older ones. "Roger, show him to the Utility Room, I must be off."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Breaker," the redhead says. He's a lanky looking sort, with green eyes and brown freckles ruling his face as well as shoulders and the rest of his pale skin.

The fat cat exits with a pleasant hum and leaves them alone.

Roger turns and eyes Jim. "What's your name?"

"Jim."

Roger snorts and shakes his head. "Great, another Jim. As if we don't have enough of them already." He sighs and turns. "Well come on then. Did Mr. Breaker show you where you'll be sleeping?"

"No."

"Guess I'll have to take care of that too—keep up, I won't slow down for you," Roger warns. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"Ah," Roger merely says, nodding to a few of the older boys who pass their way. "You'll be bunkered in Stalk Camp then. Aren't you hot? You'd be better off taking off your shirt. In case you haven't noticed, we've got three suns, and they never go down, they just rotate you see—and so we don't get night, traditionally speaking of course. We've got Riley for that, he keeps track of time. You should remember that name, he's the head honcho around here, and you'd be better off steering clear of him and keeping on his good side."

Jim says nothing to that.

"Well you're a quiet sort aren't you? Good, you'll last longer that way. Oh, here we go," Roger says as they walk up to the Mess Hall and through the entrance. "This is the Mess Hall, rarely used because some fuckwit always ruins meal time for the rest of us. Hope you can go a while without eating cause that's often the case." They walk around the long tables to the back of the hall where there is a hallway that extends to another part of the building. Roger points to one room. "Showers and toilets are through there. You'll have to wash your own clothes. You wont get access to the wash machines and arcade house until your old enough to live in Harvest Camp."

Jim eyes the showerheads and the toilets.

"Moving on," Roger says and they walk to the next door. "This is the Utility Room, you get to check out your digging equipment here. Depending on what part of the field you're working." Roger turns the knob and opens the door to room that has supply shelves of different equipment. "By the way—you're usually assigned your place of work in the morning by the Coordinator."

"Who's that?" Jim asks quietly, following Roger as he wanders back and forth through the supply shelves.

"Who's what? The Coordinator? That would be Riley's right hand man, Leighton. You'll know that fellow by his nasty attitude. He's got some major anger issues. Riley's pretty tame but Leighton's the wild card. Easily identifiable by the eye patch he wears. Don't ask me how he got it, I won't be caught gossiping. If you're really curious, ask him yourself." Roger plucks a small hand shovel. "Here—since Leighton's nowhere to be found, I'll take it easy on you cause you're new. You'll start off in Sands."

Jim takes the hand shovel, confused about what she was expected to do.

Roger exits with her in tow and he notices her perplexed expression. "I don't feel particularly bothered to explain it to you, I figure it's better to let you learn on your own," Roger says as they exit the Mess Hall and head to the fields. "Best advice I can give you is to just do what your told and don't make any enemies—hell, don't make friends either. No one can be trusted; we'd all sell each other out sooner if we thought it would keep us well fed. Though us older ones don't have it so bad."

And that's when Jim notices the difference in the boys. The younger ones were abnormally skinny, almost skeletal like while the older ones looked lean but not as healthy as they could.

Roger leads her to the group of boys who are digging away at the flat land of sand. "Here. Get to work, and you stop when you hear the whistle." Then he's gone, not bothering to elaborate.

"Oy. Psst!"

Jim frowns and glances around until they stop on a waving hazel-eyed boy with copper hair. "Me?" she mutters.

The boy nods enthusiastically and tugs her to the ground by her elbow. "Rule number one, don't ever just stand there gapping like a fish. You'll end up in the Pit."

"Pit?"

"Yeah—nasty little hole the older ones dug to toss the smaller ones in if they weren't behaving. Trust me, it's not somewhere you want to end up. I hear it bakes like an oven down there." The boy drops his hand shovel to guide her hand to her own. "Get digging, they'll be over in a minute to see if we're working."

Jim frowns but begins half-heartedly digging into the sand. "Just what are we supposed to be doing?"

"Well—we have to dig until we can see soil. Apparently there's supposed to be some under all this sand. If there is, we tell one of the Watchers and they put a marker here and everyone gets to work with digging up the rest of the soil so we can plant the seeds here and grow something or another. If we can grow our own food then we don't need to depend on Mr. Breaker or the Governor for every meal. My name's Oliver by the way, I'm twelve."

"Jim. Thirteen."

They start digging in silence, once in a while wiping the back of their arm and hand against their sweaty foreheads. The Watchers sweep through, gazing over their shoulders for about five minutes before moving on to the next section.

Oliver lets out a breath of relief and smiles at Jim. "Your new aren't you? I would have remembered if I'd seen you around."

"I just arrived," Jim says with a small shrug, stabbing at the sand with the tip of her hand shovel.

"Least they stuck you with something easy. As far as all other jobs go, this one here is the easiest," Oliver admits, scooping some sand up and dumping it in a small pile by his knees. "Aren't you hot? You should take your shirt off, you'd be better off."

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself then," Oliver says. "So. What'd you do to land here in Satan's camp?"

"Drove my dad's corvette into a cliff."

Oliver gapes. "Really?"

Jim gives a one-shouldered shrug.

"Wicked." Oliver scratches the side of his nose.

"Just what is this place?" Jim asks.

"A nightmare, if there ever was one. We're supposed to call it a Correctional Camp, but that's not even close. Some of us are here because our stupid drug addicted parents were mad enough to trust us in the hands of Lucifer himself for a price. Governor Kodos pays people like those for their children and sends them off well-paid and on their way, as long as they promise not to come back looking for us and most of them haven't. Mystery is, no one knows why, but I heard a few things. Things I wont even dare say out loud," Oliver explains. "The rest of us are just troubled orphans though; we don't have a place to call home or family to come for us."

"Which one are you?" Jim questions.

Oliver grins sadly. "The first. My mum used to be a nurse for a loony bin and one day she had to haul a patient back to his room. She cornered him in the stairwell by herself and he shoved her clean down the steps. She never was the same after that—got horribly addicted to prescription pills, even lost her job because of it. They caught her nicking a few bottles. Next thing I know, I'm being handed over to Mr. Breaker and two years later, here I am still, meanwhile, my mum's probably killed herself by OD-ing."

Jim digs her shovel into the sand a little. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I still hope my dad will come for me someday," Oliver says wistfully. "He got himself in a coma when I was six and he hasn't come out, but doctors have said he might one day. That's one day I look forward to every second." He shrugs. "What about you though? Which one are you."

"Both I guess," Jim says simply. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Oliver nods.

A whistle sounds. "Alright you pukes! Let's pack it in!"

"Thank God," Oliver groans and hops to his feet. "Come on, let's put our things away and go eat."

"If we can," another boy mutters sullenly.

Jim frowns but Oliver nudges her. "Ah don't pay attention him—Clint's just being a tosser. I'm sure we'll eat."

Jim says nothing.

They follow along with everyone else, moving towards the Mess Hall to put their equipment away. It takes a while, the line is so ridiculously long—there are so many boys—and when they've put their things away, they have a hard time finding a seat. But Oliver, being the resourceful one he is, manages to snag them a seat at the end of one of the long tables.

Jim glances around and studies them all. There are boys of all shapes and sizes and age and culture. She never expected there would be these many people but if she had to do a head count, she'd say it would be in the thousands. Chatter filled the whole Mess Hall, causing the atmosphere to come alive with anticipation and animation.

Then, an older boy, the one Jim recognizes from the mansion, climbs onto the table and stands. The Hall suddenly comes alive with cheers and handclaps as the older boy smiles charmingly.

"Oliver," Jim says, yanking him down from his clapping and cheering.

"Ouch—easy on," Oliver grunts. "What is it?"

"Who's that?" Jim says, gesturing to the older boy.

Oliver looks and his face lights up with adoration. "That's the second coming," he jokes. "But most of us call him Riley. Kevin Riley is his full name and he's the leader of all the camps. He's got heavy pull with Mr. Breaker." Lowering his voice, he says, "I hear it's because he's Einhardt's kid."

Jim frowns thoughtfully at that. "What's he doing here then?"

"Beats me—it's just a rumor anyway. No one really knows what his story is but we trust him well enough so it's not that much of an issue. Oh shush—he's going to speak."

Jim grins wryly and does as she's told, finding it a little amusing that he's bossing her around, despite the fact she's one year his senior.

"Gentlemen," Riley begins, holding the attention of the entire room with his congenial presence. "I have good news and bad news."

"Give us the good news first!" someone shouts, causing an uproar of laughter and agreement.

Riley grins. "Alright. Firstly—we're getting higher water rations."

A boom of cheers and claps spreads.

Riley holds up a hand and they quiet down. "Secondly—Mr. Breaker has agreed to eight days of food. Three meals for all eight days."

The cheers grow wildly this time.

Riley allows it for a moment before he lifts his hand again. "Now for the bad news," he says. He looks around for a moment before he sighs. "We just have to wait a week before we can get it."

"What?"

"That's not fair!"

"I'm starving!"

"We haven't eaten for nine days as it is!"

The jeers and boos and protests pierce the air rabidly.

Riley tries to calm them with encouraging words but none of them are listening. Finally, another boy climbs the table and slams a tin cup against the table like a hammer until all goes dead silent. Jim can barely see him from her seated position because of how many people are standing in the way.

"Sit," he instructs calmly.

When everyone sits, Jim gets a clear visual. He's tall, almost as tall as Riley, and he has honey brown hair and a mouth that slumps unhappily as though it's been that way since the day he was born. The eye patch is unmistakable. "Oliver," she whispers. "Is that Leighton?"

Oliver nods.

Leighton glares down the whole Mess Hall. "This is the thanks he gets? He argues on your behalf—and this is the thanks he gets?" He steps forward slowly along the table. "How ungrateful can you pukes get? Do I have a reason to believe you'll start an upheaval?" he questions.

No one responds. No one is that stupid.

"Of course not, because the mere idea is idiotic." Leighton smiles almost maniacally. "I say—you thank him—nay—tongue fuck his asshole, because he just managed something extraordinary. We're talking eight days—and this is back to back, not just some fucking every other, once a goddamn week thing. Three fucking meals for eight fucking days." He steadily eyes them all. "Now the way I see it, this can go either two ways. You can continue to complain, and whine, and nag like the little sissy shits you are and I can toss you all in the Pit—or," he pauses and lifts a finger. "You can buck up, and not fuck us all over by giving Mr. Breaker any reason to go back on his word. Your choice." Leighton gives them all a look before he turns to face Riley, giving him a nod and thumping him on the back before hopping down off the table.

"One week," Riley says. "That's all I'm asking." He nods to them before he hops down as well and joins Leighton at the entrance before they disappear.

"Off to bed then! Let's go!" Roger calls, nudging the boys to their feet with the rest of the Watchers.

Oliver exhales before he stands. "Guess we best head off too," he says.

Jim doesn't say anything but she stands as well.

"Do you know where you're bunking at?" Oliver asks as they step out into the bright, warm air.

Jim shakes her head in the negative.

"Good, lucky for you that I have a cot beside mine that emptied a few months back," Oliver says excitedly and tugs Jim over to Stalk Camp and to a specified tent. There are four rows of cots on either side of the tent, making it eight cots in all. Oliver led her all the way to the end of the tent. "This is my cot, and this last one can be yours." He drops to his knees and paws under it before he returns to his feet with a small piece of chalk. "Here, write your name at the end of it."

Jim takes it and walks to the end of the bed where there is a small chalkboard hanging. She puts **Jim K.**and leaves it at that.

Oliver is already settling into bed with a soft sigh, saying, "This will always be my favorite part of the day."

Jim sits on the side of her bed, right on the edge that's facing him. After a moment's decision, she carefully slips off her boots and deposits the pieces of candy on her cot. "Here," she tosses three pieces at him.

Oliver sits up with wide eyes. "Where'd you get this?" and he's quickly tearing at the wrappers and shoving them all in his mouth simultaneously. A testament to how hungry he must be.

"Striker," Jim says simply and pops a piece or two in her own mouth before stashing the rest under her pillow. They'd have to make it last the rest of the week if it's possible.

Oliver chews and licks at his lips. "You must mean Blue. He's pretty nice. Still not all the way right up there if you know what I mean," he says, pointing to his temple. "But okay nonetheless." He falls back against his pillow and closes his eyes. He's out like a light in the next minute.

Jim has more questions she wants to ask, but she forgoes asking them in favor of getting some sleep herself. She lays back and closes her eyes with a deep sigh.

She can't ignore the fact that there is something not right about all of this.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Well…I don't know. What do you think?_

_To view photos go to http : / / whatshouldntbe . livejournal . com / / (without the spaces of course)_


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